


Time Out of Time

by epkitty



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, Historical, M/M, Marooned, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:16:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, what would YOU do if you were stuck on a desert island with Norrington???</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Out of Time

**Author's Note:**

> AU after Curse of the Black Pearl. Edward England was real; Robinson and Wells were not. Gillette IS the best a man can get, but HE belongs to Disney, and heaven knows the mouse won’t EVER let him come out. You get extra points if you catch the line I stole and twisted round from “Into the Woods” as well as a line from a deleted scene/outtake.

**Sunday**

= = = = =

Governor Swann leaned out over the gunwale as far as was seemly for a proper British official— that is, as far as he could without rubbing up against anything that might be dirty. “Is that…?”

“A pirate ship, sir,” Lieutenant Gillette said.

“Fleet, actually,” Norrington corrected as he came up behind them.

“And,” the Governor wanted to know, “what are we doing about it?”

“Running away,” Norrington told him.

Swann finally turned from the sight of the approaching sloops to the young man who had almost been his son-in-law. “You seem inordinately calm about the circumstance, Commodore.”

“We’re outgunned and outmaneuvered, Governor. Either I order us to fight, in which case we all die and lose the _Endeavor_ , or I surrender, in which case half the men will go on the account and we still lose the _Endeavor_ , but my officers will survive.”

“Ah, and myself?”

“You’ll join us on the longboats. We’ll no doubt be wet, hungry, and unhappy for the next few days, but we’ll survive and you’ll be back in your mansion before week’s end, little the worse for wear.”

Swann had no ready answer, but only examined Norrington’s profile against the bright Caribbean backdrop. The man seemed determined and yet at ease with the decision and his position in it.

Sensing the attention, Norrington turned to him. “Unless you have some other suggestion?”

“No,” Swann answered, breaking off his reverie. “No.”

The sloops, nearly half a dozen of them, grew closer.

“Gillette, run up the white flag.”

The ambitious lieutenant frowned and glared with his dark eyes at his commander, but he complied, departing the quarterdeck with a clear, “Yes sir.”

“Do you know who it is?” Swann asked.

Norrington gestured for a sailor to bring his telescope, which he extended with practiced ease to search the oncoming fleet. “Black flag. Skull and crossed bones.” He frowned and fumbled with the dials. “Ah. The _Royal James_. The _Victory_. The _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ and the _Flying King_. And, of course, the _Fancy_.” A look askance to the older man revealed only a perplexed look. “You’re in luck, Governor. Edward England fancies himself a gentleman pirate. You’ll find him a good-natured captor, I think.”

“We’re going to be boarded?” Swann asked, the truth of it finally sinking in.

“Yes.”

“Oh, exciting!”

Norrington bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the lopsided smile that wanted to break out and finally turned from his diversion with the Governor to attend his men and ship. “Lower the longboats to port! Reef the sails! I don’t want any heroics, now; just leave the _Endeavor_ to England. She’s a slow enough ship and won’t be missed, I think. Gillette. Fetch the Governor’s papers; I’m entrusting them to you.”

“Aye sir.” The trust of this order overrode the perceived cowardice of the surrender and Andrew Gillette was instantly mollified.

Governor Swann, unconcerned with his few effects, elected to say above decks to watch the action, which – in the end – seemed rather anticlimactic. They’d dropped anchor and lowered longboats, ready to hand the ship over to England’s tender mercies.

Grapnels dragged the _Fancy_ alongside the _Endeavor_ , a gangplank was laid across, and Edward England himself was the first to set foot on the Navy ship. He was not a striking man, neither tall nor handsome, but his bearded face and crinkled eyes gave the instant appearance of friendliness, and he accosted the commander of the ship with unarmed diplomacy and thick Irish brogue. “What have we here, then? A commodore, eh… Norrington, is it?”

“Yes, Mister England.”

“I see you’ve raised the white flag, very sensible of you.”

“Your five sloops to my corvette dictated surrender to be the only viable option.”

England smiled and surveyed the deck quickly before addressing him again. “Kind praise, but I think ye would not have been so willing had you been fully manned.”

Norrington flashed a tight smile of ambassadorial non-emotion. “As you say.”

“And I declare, who’s this fellow with the wig?” England asked, sighting Swann behind a knot of blue-coated officers.

Weatherby Swann pushed his way to the fore, extending his hand to Edward England. “Governor Swann of Port Royal, Jamaica, Mister England. An honor.”

Charmed, the pirate shook the proffered hand, laughed, and turned to his men. “I like this one.”

The pirates who continued to flow over the gangplank to the Endeavor only grinned at their captain’s eccentricities.

“Well then,” England went on, “your officers are free to go on their way, Commodore. They look eager enough to leave. As for the rest of your men,” he cast an appraising eye over the sailors, “well. We’ll sort that out later. Go on,” he then flapped his hands at the blue-clad officers as though chasing a pack of goats from a pen, “off with you then. Oh, not you, Commodore. Nor you, Governor Swann. You’ll do very well for a ransom, so you will. And Norrington will be some very fine insurance for the Navy to do as we say. Who’s your man here?”

“Gillette.”

“Lieutenant Gillette, expect word within forty-eight hours.”

Gillette, flabbergasted and horrified, had barely enough sense to keep his feet as he disappeared over the portside rail on his way to the waiting longboat.

For the first time that day, Norrington appeared distinctly worried as he and the Governor were politely but quickly urged below decks and to the hold, where they were locked in the small brig by a burly Navy sailor, who shrugged and told them, “The King’s shilling never much appealed to me interests, Commodore. Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Mister Barrows,” Norrington told him reasonably. “Just be sure you don’t have occasion to cross my path in future.”

“I don’t doubt the Pirate Scourge would readily hang me, sir,” the man told him with a grim smile. “But still, I’ll do what I can t’see England treats ye proper.”

“You’re a good man, Barrows. And tell him he can have my pistol if he likes but the sword means a good deal to me and I’d like it back, when the time comes.”

“Will do, sir. Governor,” the brawny man acknowledged before departing from the hold with Norrington’s weapons in hand and ship’s keys at his belt.

“Damn it all to bloody hell. I’m sorry about this, Governor.”

But Swann seemed hardly upset by the affair. “Not at all. You realize it’s not your fault, Commodore? Nothing to be done but what you did, and very well at that. Now, why don’t we make ourselves, uh, comfortable,” he said as though doubting the prospect, “and settle in for the long haul, as you say.”

There was nothing available to them in the little brig aboard the corvette, no bunk nor hammock. Two wooden walls and two barred ones made up their six by six by six foot prison. But neither was the place unduly dirty or smelly, and for that Norrington was coldly relieved. He sighed and proceeded to remove hat, wig, coat, shoes, and hose.

The Governor, who’d removed his hat only because the ceiling was so low, blinked in surprise.

Norrington shrugged, trying to tuck longish brown hair behind an ear. “I’m afraid there’s little in the way of comfort, but if I can rid myself of that getup for a few days, I will. Especially since there’s no one to order about.” He set the coat on the floor as a makeshift blanket, sat upon it with his back to the wall, rested arms on upraised knees, and closed his eyes to what limited light filtered down from the deck. “Hate to see a man-o-war in the hands of a pirate,” he sighed.

The Governor took up residence in the opposing corner, leaning on the bars and regarding his fellow prisoner curiously as he fanned himself with the hat. “I can’t help but notice that your words are rather empty of any hateful emotion.”

Norrington shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture. “I’ve learned a few things from the Caribbean. More from that miserable rogue Sparrow. Take what comes… There’s nothing I can do to alter the situation, so I have to accept it. Even if I hate it.”

“That’s very philosophical of you, Commodore.”

“James.”

“Pardon?”

“Swann,” Norrington said, finally opening his eyes. “There’s no one here but you and me. No Navy. No Port Royal. No Jamaica and no Britain. For all purposes, there isn’t even a Caribbean. Just two men in a cell.” He shrugged and then shut his eyes to the world again. “Keep your titles and pretenses if you like. I have no need of them here.”

Had the Commodore’s smart green eyes been open, he would have seen the sudden worry, an expression bordering fear, on the Governor’s face. “Well,” the older man cleared his throat and peered beyond the bars into the hold where a pirate wandered the distant guns, tallying the booty. “I know ‘Weatherby’ is quite a mouthful, but you’re welcome to it, if you like.”

Norrington chuckled deep in his throat, but neglected to open his eyes.

Swann was content to focus upon the goings-on without the cell. “Won’t find much of value, will they?”

“No. Just a British Royal Navy man-o-war capable of housing thirty-two cannons.”

“Oh yes, I’d quite forgot,” Swann admitted. “I am sorry.”

“The loss of the ship is nothing to the embarrassment of being kidnapped for ransom. You have friends in high places; the Crown will no doubt be glad to pay to have you back.” He laughed then, shoulders shaking with it. “With my luck, the Navy will tell England, ‘keep the Commodore, he’s not worth a guinea.’” He laughed again, a hysterical edge creeping into the sound.

“I highly doubt the Pirate Scourge of the Caribbean will be so lightly given up.”

“Ah, I thank you for the vote of confidence, Weatherby.” He opened his eyes then and peered into the darkness above them. “I’m sorry. I’ve never made very good company, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve always enjoyed your company just fine,” Swann told him softly.

Norrington smiled and closed his eyes.

= = = = =

Somewhere along the line, James figured he’d fallen asleep. He deduced this only because he suddenly found himself waking up, as abruptly as a flash sparks in the pan.

The ship rolled under him; he could feel it coursing through the water. The sun shone bright gold at a steep angle. Sunset, then. Men sung aloft; the short-haul chantey dissolved into a wordless rhythm by the time it reached Norrington in the brig. He hummed along and looked beside him. Governor Weatherby Swann had adopted a similar position with his coat folded under him as a cushion. His hat had been tossed aside, but the rest of him was in good order, from bright buckled shoes to curling, gray wig.

Norrington met amused eyes and smiled his lop-sided grin. “Sorry. Must have been tired.”

“You were only out for a few hours. No need to apologize. While you were sleeping, I was contemplating thoughts of escape.”

“Really? How do you get along?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid. I was born to be a diplomat, not,” he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture, “to run about with swords and scurry up rigging. I doubt I could break out of a paper bag, let alone a Navy-made jail cell.”

Norrington snickered, his green eyes lit with delight.

Both men just smiled and laughed, incapable of doing anything else.

= = = = =

“And how are my guests?”

The prisoners roused themselves from their light doze, each propped in a corner of the cell. Night had fallen and only a single swinging lantern illuminated the hold. Norrington rose to his feet to address the pirate. “Uncomfortable. I don’t suppose we could have our cabins back.”

“Not at all! You’ve quite a reputation on these seas, as if you didn’t know. Letting you out is as good as letting you go.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my cunning. But you can be sure I wouldn’t leave the Governor behind.”

“Just the same, I think I like having you behind bars. It might have a humbling effect on you and – by extension – the Navy in general. Of course, if you gave me your parole…”

Norrington frowned as though contemplating the idea. “I think not.”

“You could have your fancy sword back…” England tempted.

“I prefer the option of escape, should it arise. But you could let the Governor out. I doubt he’ll be swimming anywhere of his own volition.”

“And deprive each other of your only company? I think not. The crew might be nervous y’see, with such personages wandering about.”

“No doubt you’re right,” Norrington agreed. “And how well do you treat your guests, may I ask?”

“What are you looking for?” England asked.

“Dinner.”

The pirate laughed heartily and clapped a hand on the bars. “Dinner! I like that! Yes, at once. There are some excellent stores aboard this vessel; your bellies will be full in no time.”

“Thank you.”

= = = = =

Barrows delivered salmagundi and grog to them on elegant trays from the galley. They ate hungrily, sitting cross-legged on the floor and Swann finally sighed and grabbed off his wig, revealing a close-cropped head of graying hair. “It keeps getting in my soup,” he complained, throwing the curled wig into his upturned hat.  
 Norrington stared at him, having never seen the man without the societal buffer. He looked suddenly exposed and vulnerable. Older and kinder and infinitely more approachable. Weatherby seemed not to notice the attention and only ate his meal, making idle remarks between bites. “Not bad, for pirate gruel, similar to a gumbo I had once in the colonies. Say, do you think we’ll be here long, James?”

Recovering his wits, Norrington responded just before the pause seemed overlong. “Hard to say. If England thinks we’re amusing, he might keep us awhile before even sending word. And how he plans to pull off the exchange, I’m sure I don’t know.”

“What is this?” Swann asked, peering skeptically into his drink.

“Grog. Half rum, half water.”

“Oh. So that’s what it is… not bad, really.” He looked up.

James flashed his lop-sided smile. “Not good either, is it?”

“No.”

They laughed again and Norrington sipped from his own mug. “Ach.”

“Why do they do it?”

“Hmm?”

“Sailors becoming pirates,” Swann elaborated. He was peering out the bars to the hold, where men who had been under the King’s command in the morning served a pirate captain in the evening.

“More than half our men don’t willing choose the Navy. They consider themselves purser rigged and parish damned; in other words, they have no other option. Army, Navy, or marines: take your pick. Most die of disease or a bad wound whichever way. Some, the young ones, are tricked into taking the King’s shilling by recruiters. The rest are press-ganged, or criminals offered the option of service instead of jail or the noose. The ones who join of their own will are too stupid or romantic to know better what awaits them on the open ocean if they survive the crossing at all.”

Swann paled. “You don’t make it sound very appealing.”

“It isn’t. They’re all rumpot scum and given half the chance they do as you see… Go on the account. They’re likely to live shorter lives but see more money and drink than they would otherwise.” He finished his meal and slid the tray aside, cradling the wooden mug in cupped hands. “And that’s all they wanted from the Navy in the first place. A shilling and a half-pint of rum.”

“And you?”

“I’m an officer. I can buy what I like: a commission, a wife, a legacy.”

“Seems you’ve earned it as well,” the Governor quietly admired.

“All but the wife,” Norrington admitted with a sneer.

Swann frowned. “I am sorry about that.”

James shook his head. “Lord knows that girl will always do what she wants, and likely get what she wants as well. It’s all for the good, Weatherby, you must see that. I do, now. We’d have made one another miserable! Now she makes Turner miserable,” he lightly joked, “but he’s young enough to put up with it. Not to mention in love. That always helps.”

“You weren’t in love with her?” Swann carefully asked, not accusing, only wondering.

“Hard to say.” Then he shook his head and looked down. “That’s a lie. I didn’t love her. She was only one more prize to fulfill a life already bought and paid for.” He looked up then, peering between strands of rumpled brown hair. “But it’s in the past. I don’t think I shall marry now. Seeing her and young Will… I could never have that, truly, and it saddens me. So, I’d rather become a confirmed old bachelor, as they say, than to succumb to a mockery of… love.” He drained the last of his grog and rolled the mug across the slanting deck. “I never much cared for women anyway.”

Swann regarded him with a carefully appraising look. “Really?”

Norrington seemed not to recognize the significance of his words. “Women,” he said, “society, all of that fine frippery and politics. Give me a good ship, that’s all I want.” He opened his eyes and took in the sight of their cell. “Though I’d prefer being on the other side of these bars. Still, it’s not all that different from a man’s life is it?” he asked. “We’re always barred by rules… I used to like them. Rules, I mean. But I find they make less and less sense as I get older.”

“They do at that,” Swann quietly agreed.

Norrington pursed his lips and looked at his companion. “Well, we’ve been kidnapped and imprisoned aboard our own ship. But we’ve a kindly jailer and food enough. All in all, things could be much worse.”

= = = = =

 **Monday**

= = = = =

In the morning, their fitful sleep was broken by shouts and demands to “Get up, you lazabouts!”

Norrington shrugged on his coat as Barrows unlocked the cell door and Edward England peered happily in at them. “A change of scenery for ye, I think. Bring what you like, though you won’t need much. Come along, we haven’t all day.”

Assembling themselves as quickly as possible, both men were soon presentable, if slightly rumpled, and herded above decks where the sun blinded them and the men jeered at them.

Norrington paled at the sight of the little spit of land that sat like a lump in the distance.

Seeing his expression, England grinned and clapped James on the back. “Don’t be so worried. Your new home is far more spacious than your previous one. And if the Navy complies with all demands, your stay shall last less than a week, all told.”

“And if they don’t comply?” Norrington asked dryly.

“Best not to think about that,” England answered, removing his hand from the stiff shoulder.

The Governor watched and listened carefully, letting Norrington handle the exchange. “And what exactly will your demands be?” James asked.

England gestured to the empty water around them. “You may have noticed I’ve sent my consorts off already.”

“I’ll admit I did,” Norrington allowed, finding no sight of the other sloops.

“Well, here’s what’ll happen, Commodore. You and the Governor will be deposited here, with a few amenities. In the meantime one of my men, a brave volunteer from the _Victory_ , is this moment taking my missive to Port Royal. There are conditions, you see. There are always conditions… My man must be released right away without harm; otherwise you’ll die. Our ransom must be delivered to us in a small sloop on the open sea; otherwise you’ll die. There are to be no tricks, no attacks, no counter demands. Otherwise—”

“We die,” Norrington finished. “I grasp the concept.”

“Good for you; knew you were a smart man. By the way, that means no tricks from you either…” England smiled, watching as a few men lowered a longboat. “So you see, when we have what we want, with no double-crossing, we’ll tell your men where to pick you up. They’ll understand of course that if anything goes amiss, they’ll be leaving their Commodore and Governor to a slow death on a small island.”

“I hope they consider us worth your price,” Norrington said.

“For your sake,” England answered, “I hope so, too.”

= = = = =

Norrington and Swann were ushered off the longboat at sword point. They stepped into the shallow water and accepted what was shoved into their hands: two jugs, a dull machete, a piece of flint no larger than a thumbnail, and a large sea turtle, which Norrington dragged ashore by its flippers and left upside-down in the shade. “I’m not to be given my sword, then?” he shouted back at the departing men.

The pirates ignored him as they turned the boat about and heaved back out to sea.

A jug in each hand, Swann stood in the shallows, watching the longboat row away, back to the _Fancy_. He turned to Norrington and said, “Well, I’ve been wanting a vacation.”

= = = = =

Both men accepted their situation with grace, discarding all their extraneous finery in a heap just beyond the tree line until they were left in nothing but shirts and breeches.

“I suppose you know how to cook that,” Swann said with a wave at the struggling turtle.

“Yes,” Norrington grunted as he dumped another armload of kindling into the fire pit Swann had dug out. “But we’d better save it.”

“Any ideas for nourishment in the meantime?”

Norrington swiped his sleeve over his brow, dashing away the sweat, and then waved his hand at the foliage. “Coconuts. I’ll take a hike, see what else there might be.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. Get the fire going… Can you start a fire?” he asked, indicating the flint and machete.

“I’m more than willing to give it a go,” Swann gamely agreed. “But under the circumstances, perhaps you’d best get it started. I’ll keep it up.”

With a nod, Norrington fell to his knees in the sand. He braced the point of the machete on a large piece of driftwood and sliced down in sharp jerks at the flint, which he held between thumb and forefinger over tiny, twisted up twigs and grasses and thin strips of bark. “Blow,” he demanded as the sparks started to catch, and the Governor lay on his belly to move air over the sparks until a tiny, crackling fire burned lively in the pit. “Just keep adding slowly to it.”

“Your hand,” Weatherby said, taking Norrington’s bleeding fingers in a firm grip. The Governor deftly uncorked the jug of rum and doused the cuts with it as James cursed at the sting. Then Swann untied the white cravat from his neck and bound Norrington’s fingers in an inexpert, but tight bandage.

“Bloody pirates,” Norrington swore, but let the man do as he would. “Thank you. Just… keep that going,” he said, waving to the fire as he stood. “I’ll be back before dark. Long before,” he added, looking over the tiny island, “if this place is as bare as it looks.”

Weatherby Swann watched the man slowly disappear into what constituted a jungle on the island and then turned his attention to the sea. The _Fancy_ ’s white sails were barely visible on the horizon and he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, pray, or go mad.

But for all the trouble they were in, it was at least peaceful. He’d never felt quite at ease on a ship, so it was a relief to be on dry land, and – though he wasn’t ready to admit it – there was also a certain amount of relief to be rid of his societal trappings. He’d heard his daughter and her husband speaking of the liberty of piracy and for the first time, as he heard nothing but wind and waves and saw nothing but sand and wonder, he thought he had an inkling of what that talk was all about and what true freedom could mean to a man.

= = = = =

Norrington was glad of the shade and he stuck to the shadows cast by the sparse trees, observing everything around him. He stepped slowly and carefully, watching where he put his bare feet. In the shade and the wind, the sweat began to dry and he breathed deep, absurdly grateful for the small relief.

At first, he covered a lot of ground, but his pace slowed as the heat of midday approached. He found a few trees baring coconuts and made note of where they were. A few desultory attempts of throwing a small rock at them had no effect and he moved on. Eventually, he crowed a howl of victory upon sighting a cluster of small, twisting bushes and he removed his shirt to fashion a knapsack, which he loaded with the red, green, and yellow mangoes.

He slung the thing by the sleeves over his shoulder and on his return to their makeshift camp, grabbed fallen leaves and sticks with his injured hand for more kindling.

With the load heavy on his back and sticks and leaves dragging in his hand, Norrington finally turned his mind to the circumstances he suddenly found himself in. Lord but his life managed to go from good to bad to worse in no time flat.

Still, the company was decent and he’d survived worse things than being marooned with food and water for a week.

= = = = =

The pair of them sat together near the fire, peeling the colorful skin of the small mangoes to reveal the bright yellow flesh, which they ate with relish. They threw the large white pits into the fire and drank sparingly of the jugs, one of which contained fresh water that would soon turn rancid, and the other rum, which would last at least as long as they could make it.

Governor Swann laughed as he sank his teeth into his third fruit.

“What?” James wanted to know.

Weatherby pointed at the man’s face. “You’ve dripped everywhere.”

Norrington licked his fingers and scraped the yellow juice from his chin. “Messy,” he agreed and stood to rinse his face and hands in the lapping waves. “Ah,” he sighed as he stood upright and cast his gaze to the western sky where the sun was beginning to lay itself to bed.

Swann turned a wary eye to the horizon as well. “Think it’ll rain?”

Norrington searched the sky until he saw birds chasing the insects high in the air. “No,” he said, “not tonight.” He turned back to the west and watched the sun begin to bleed red into the low clouds there. “Cold though.”

By silent agreement, they stood and together spent the remaining daylight collecting enough wood, grass, and leaf to keep the fire blazing long into the night.

By the time the sun set and the wind blew chill over the beach, the men were growing cold. But instead of shrugging on bedraggled clothes, Norrington insisted on making a little nest. He quickly laid out palm fronds, crisscrossing one over another as a matt to keep the cold sand away. Atop this, he set out their waistcoats. He ushered the Governor to lay down closest to the fire and Norrington lay beside him. They pulled their coats over them as blankets and curled in toward the burning fire. “Can you reach the kindling?” James mumbled.

“Yes.”

And even though the night was cold, and the sand was everywhere, and their feather-stuffed mattresses were far away with the rest of society; even though Elizabeth Turner would be worried sick over both of them and they’d lost a grand ship to pirate scum; even though they’d been taken hostage for mere money, they slept. Because they were tired, hungry, weary, thirsty, and imperfect creatures, they slept.

The stars shone and moved their ineffable path across the sky, the waves beat their continuous rhythm on the shore, and the men could only sleep: heavy, deep, and dreamless.

= = = = =

Norrington had always been thin-blooded. English winters had tormented him; he’d often been sick as a boy. And when he woke in the night on the little Caribbean beach, shivering under his coat – an insufficient blanket – and felt the warmth to one side, he gravitated toward it.

Too unused to sleeping anywhere but alone in a bed, Swann instantly wakened. He sat up to throw more fuel to the dying fire and then turned to take the cold man into his arms.

“You’re like a furnace,” Norrington muttered, gratefully squirming into the embrace.

Swann chuckled and shifted the coats over top of them. “Sleep, if you can.”

= = = = =

 **Tuesday**

= = = = =

They rose with the first heat of the morning and drank of the tepid water in the jug.

Norrington complained about the coconuts and Swann said he’d like to take a look.

The fire had died in the night, but they left it, determined to light it again before dark. Norrington checked that their sea turtle was still alive and unable to escape and the men set out early into the jungle.

Norrington pointed out the first tree, and they stood together underneath it, looking up. Neither relished the strange, bitter milk of the coconut, but it would be better than nothing when their water ran out, and the flesh of it tasted well enough when cooked over a fire.

If they could get to the blasted things.

“Is there another one?”

So the two of them made the limited rounds of the island until James showed Weatherby a palm tree that sported several coconuts and leaned at a sharp angle away from the wind.

“Oh, that one will do nicely,” Swann declared. Then, he rubbed his hands together and scuttled up it like a monkey.

Norrington watched in shocked disbelief.

Weatherby Swann straddled the tree where the large leaves sprouted and knocked off all the coconuts. He was not quite as elegant or fast on his way back down, but he was nimble enough.

Norrington blinked at him.

“I loved to climb trees when I was a boy! It’s been a while, but,” he looked from the tree back to Norrington, “oh stop looking at me like that. It was nothing; you could have done it.”

“But I didn’t,” James finally managed, walking over to collect the downed fruit.

Swann gave him a hand and before long the pair of them sat at the fire, working at hacking off the outer crust to get to the hairy nut inside, which still had to be cracked. Norrington knew a trick to it. He swirled the milk inside, listening to find how ripe it was. He held it firm in one hand and smacked the top half with the palm of his other. He rotated it and repeated the trick several times until the thing cracked neatly in half. He divided the liquid inside evenly and handed one half to Weatherby.

“I see I’m not the only one with tricks; that was very impressive. Where did you learn it?”

“Have you ever been to Singapore?”

= = = = =

Governor Weatherby Swann was the sort of man Norrington had always disliked… not despised – hatred served him far better in other ways – but certainly disliked. Swann was naturally kind and good-humored, which meant he was taken advantage of by everyone, but also greatly admired. He spoiled his daughter, and she loved him for it. He was generous with the servants, and they were supremely loyal for it. He was charmingly fatuous with his peers, and they honored him for it. In short, he was a good man who led an easy life he hadn’t done anything to earn. But dammit, Norrington liked him anyway. For all his seeming ignorance, Weatherby looked upon the world with both childlike wonder and learned cynicism that made him an excellent companion in both fine times and poor ones.

He handled his duties with grace and effortlessness, he looked upon the sea as a great game, he’d handled the imprisonment with unaffected aplomb, and he was surviving on the island without complaint.

Norrington found himself utterly captivated.

= = = = =

Commodore James Norrington was generally not the sort of person Weatherby chose to socialize with. He was too hard, too serious, and too young. But behind the stern façade was a soft understanding, and belying the sober attitude was a wicked sense of humor, and for his few years he had remarkable strength and intelligence, along with a rare wisdom that increased by leaps and bounds every day.

Why, this little adventure alone had revealed how very adaptable, resourceful, accepting, and diplomatic he could be.

Though – Weatherby grudgingly admitted to himself – it hardly helped that he’d fallen in love with the man years ago.

= = = = =

“What about that one there?”

“Pirate,” James grunted.

“Pirate? My, you do see them everywhere, don’t you?”

“Yes. What do you make of it?”

“I rather think it looks like a dog.”

James was silent a moment and then: “How do you get a dog?”

“Well it’s upside down. It doesn’t have much in the way of legs, I grant you, but the head is very clear, just there, with floppy ears. And that’s the tail curving up at the top.”

“Oh. I took that to be the pirate’s sword.”

“It could be a sword,” Swann gracefully allowed. “Ah. Here comes another one.”

= = = = =

During the cloud gazing, they found that a few fingers of rum added to the coconut milk made for a delicious concoction, and they were practically drunk with it, after having so little food.

“Thought about serving up that sea turtle tonight?”

Norrington lay back on the beach and dug his head into the sand so that he was peering upside down at the still flailing reptile. “Nnnnnoooo,” he decided. “Save it to t-tomorrow.”

“Don’t drink often, do you?”

“No. And the uh, whuchucallit,” James said, pointing at the animal. “Don’t know how long we’ll be here, do we? We’ll save it, so we will, and be better for it in the end.”

Charmed at the surprising accent that leaked out with Norrington’s drunken ramblings, the Governor listed to one side and asked, “You Irish?”

“Born Irish. Aye. And sent off to school in England. Boarding school. Me Da tol’ them to beat the Irish outta me. Was me mam who had the Irish brogue and passed it on to me where we…” his words died out and his eyes tried to focus on the Governor. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.”

“No more rum for you,” Swann decided.

“Bugger.”

= = = = =

After he sobered, Norrington took another trek back to the mango bushes. He gathered more fruit, which would serve as dinner, and on his slow, meandering return to camp where they would laze in the shade for the afternoon, he took a serious look at himself.

His white Navy breeches were stained and sandy; his silk shirt was torn and sweaty. He had several days’ worth of beard stubbling his face and his glossy hair had turned to ragged brown rattails. He was always thirsty now, and the constant hunger was nothing in comparison. His fingers throbbed from where he’d cut them the day before and dizzy spells came and went with the heat.

But he was not depressed. He was a hostage of pirates and possibly condemned to a horrible death within weeks, if not days. But he could easily hope that it wouldn’t come to that, and he found that he could accept what he had now without protest.

He also found that he was taking an uncommon interest in his companion.

Norrington halted, literally freezing to the spot. He had never expected it, could never have predicted it, wouldn’t have believed it had someone told him. Nevertheless, when it happened, he accepted it. Just like that. No crisis, no setback, no questions.

“Huh,” he marveled to himself, and set off again for the shore.

When he returned and sat in the shade beside Swann – just as dirty and sweaty and miserable and hungry as himself – he grinned and thought it strange how a moment’s reflection could permanently change one’s perception of another. He gave over the fruit with a gentle hand and gentler smile, and wondered where such tender feelings came from. Then he wondered what it would be like to kiss the man. He looked out at the ocean, and waited.

= = = = =

“Why the Navy for you, James Norrington?”

The early evening was warm and they sat a decent distance from the cheery fire, counting shooting stars and slapping away the insects.

“I’m the second son of a gentleman,” he answered. “My brother was set to inherit the estate, and his mother was my father’s first wife, and not a heathen Irishwoman neither. My brother was the apple of my father’s eye, and I did everything I could to earn even half the love my father showed Jeremiah. He wanted me to join the Navy, so I did. I went to school and I went to sea, and everything I did, I did for him. He died before I made Commodore, but no doubt he would only have been disappointed I wasn’t yet an Admiral.”

“Was he really so harsh?” Weatherby asked.

“Oh, aye. It took me a long time to learn that whatever I did I ought to do it for myself and no one else, lest my triumphs become utterly meaningless.” He dug his heel into the sand with several kicks in an angry gesture and said, “King, country, and self: that’s all there is for me, it sometimes seems. But now there’s this,” he said with a laugh, encompassing their situation with a wave, “And I find in the last few days you’ve quickly become more important than all the rest of it.”

“Me?”

“Certainly. Without you I’d have long succumbed to some gross melancholy, drunk myself to a stupor, and laid down to die.”

“Surely not. No, not you, Commodore; you’re too strong to give up.”

“You overestimate me.”

Swann shook his gray head and insisted, “No, it’s insupportable. You’d never just give in to something so ignominious as death.”

James was silent a moment, considering this. “Perhaps you’re right. Thank goodness I don’t have the opportunity to find out. Hopefully, I never will.” His voice was rough and scratchy, too dry to be much more than a croak. Tired, he laid himself back in the sand and waited for sleep.

The Governor was just as thirsty, just as dry and dizzy. He took one last sip of their water and watched James Norrington: a fine man too conflicted to see his own value.

Swann moved closer, curling into his coat as the night – another cold one – deepened and the fire quieted, laying beside what had become very important to him in the past few days as well.

= = = = =

 **Wednesday**

= = = = =

Norrington roused himself before the sun. He gathered the largest leaves from the bushy undergrowth and laid them out upside down in lines under the trees.

As the sun came up and the air warmed, dew slowly collected on the cold leaves. Before it could be burnt away, Norrington quickly carried each leaf with its tiny drop of dew to collect them in what appeared to be the strongest leaf. In the end, there were about two small mouthfuls of water in the leaf he cupped in his hand. He pursed his lips to suck up a swallow and then brought the makeshift cup to the sleeping Governor. “Oi, Weatherby. Sit up.”

Swann groaned, rubbed at his back, and rolled up onto his knees. Norrington carefully held the leaf as Swann drank from it. “Where’d this come from?”

“Dew,” Norrington said curtly.

“You collected dew?”

“Yes.”   
“Remarkable.”   
It was another hot, Caribbean day, and the men did little but lounge in the shade. They agreed to preserve what was left of the water by mixing it with the rum and they soon had a nearly full jug of grog, which would have to last them until rescue came.

They’d only been there two nights, but they’d already lost track. Lucidity and confusion came in their respective waves, and when the times of coherence coincided, they would hold short conversations to keep their spirits up, despite pounding headaches.

They both drowsed as the sun reached its zenith, but – oddly – the light did not seem so strong. They sat up and regarded the cloudy sky.

“Storm,” Norrington said.

“Rain?”

“You see how low the birds are flying?” James said, pointing out the black shapes in the distance. “Yes. Rain. Leaves!” he said, jumping up.

They moved with what energy they could muster, laying out the upturned leaves on the sandy ground amongst the trees. When the rain came, it came in torrents, and they stood under the trees, finding the places where the rain collected into paths to drip in streams from the edges of the fronds above them, and they stood there with open mouths and cupped hands, drinking what they could, despite the rain that bashed at their sun-burnt faces and closed eyes.

The storm passed as swiftly as it came, and the men set about pouring the collected water into coconut halves from the leaves, which they felt no compunction about drinking, truly slaking their thirst for the first time in days.

The sun came out again, the heat set upon them, and they retreated to the shady tree line, napping with their hats over their faces.

The day passed as slowly as the others, and Norrington eventually gathered the energy to move. He cleared a new space for a fire pit, as what remained of the other was still damp. Then he slowly walked the island, finding what wood was dry. The sun dried things quickly, so that wasn’t a problem, but they’d already burnt most of what could be found on the ground, so Norrington resigned himself to burning the green palm leaves and weedy undergrowth. By the time he had assembled everything he deemed they needed to cook the turtle that night, he decided he smelled worse than the average pirate.

He lazed about on the beach for a while but in the end, Norrington couldn’t stand smelling himself anymore, so he stripped down to nothing and dove into the blue water, scrubbing sand all over, upbraiding his pale skin to a raw, pink hue. Then, he retreated to the shade of the palms before the sun’s touch could burn. It was as he was swaggering up the beach – shaking salt water from too long hair – that he became aware of the attention he had garnered.

Governor Swann’s eyes were riveted to his nude form. Norrington smiled as he plopped himself in the sand beside his only companion.

It had been a long time since anyone had looked at James Norrington like a piece of meat, and he quite enjoyed the rarity. “Very refreshing,” he said. “You should take a little swim, Weatherby; it’ll do wonders.” He hadn’t flirted with anyone for ages either, and he wasn’t sure how well he was getting on.

Swann looked away from the tempting morsel arrayed beside him. “Ah… I’m afraid I’m not so young as I used to be.”

“What has that to do with anything?” James asked, feigning ignorance. “I swear you’ll feel ten times better.”

Swann held the guileless, imploring gaze a moment too long and gave in. “If you insist…”

“I do,” Norrington agreed, climbing back to his feet. “I’ll go with you. Come on. Up!”

Swann consented to the hand up and then idly looked away, as though expecting sails on the horizon any moment as he hesitantly unbuttoned shirt and breeches.

Allowing the man his modesty, Norrington slowly headed back into the sun and toward the shoreline, letting his toes dig into the cushioning sand. “Ready then?”

Swann grunted his assent and both men watched their own feet as they waded into the calm blue waters. Norrington could only wait so long before diving in again, submerging himself completely in the cool, quiet blue world of nothingness. He surfaced only when his lungs demanded it, surging up into the open air, gasping for breath. He grinned at Swann and floated over. The water was only up to their waists and he boldly grabbed the man’s hand and tugged him toward the distant waves. His touch was insistent but his words were soft as he got his feet under him and stood, bringing them eye-to-eye. “What’s wrong, Weatherby?”

“I can’t swim.”

Norrington couldn’t help a little smile at the admission. “We won’t go out far, no farther than this, if you like.” He sank down into the water again and grabbed a handful of sand to scrub under his arms. Swann fallowed his example, kneeling in the water, using the sand as a makeshift scrub brush.

“Duck under a moment,” Norrington said and promptly did so himself, tilting his head back as he re-emerged so his brown hair was smoothed back. “It’s most invigorating.”

Swann shook his head as though uncertain, but submerged himself until only his head remained above the lapping water. Then he took a breath, plugged his nose, and dunked himself. He came up sputtering almost right away, but smiled. Then the smile turned mischievous. Swann stood and hunched over, curving his arm like a great arc and swung it over the surface of the water, sending a giant spray at the Commodore.

“What was that for?” he shouted, stumbling back in the water.

“When’s the last time you played?” Weatherby asked, flapping his hands at the water, splashing.

Norrington was utterly taken aback, but then a wicked smile curved his patrician features and he retaliated in turn.

The men splashed and laughed and pushed one another about in the water, tiring weakened bodies until it was all they could do to drag themselves from the ocean to crash on the beach.

Swann only watched then as Norrington pulled on graying breeches and dragged the sea turtle toward the fire. He bashed in the creature’s under-shell with the machete and propped it over the growing fire like a pot of stew. He picked out the pieces of shell and stirred the innards. “Turtle soup, coming right up,” he promised. “Though we don’t have enough fuel to make it very hot, so it’ll be awhile.”

The sun set, the stars pricked through the blue-black curtain of the dark sky, and unlike the previous nights, this one proved to be just as hot as the preceding day. The men, clad only in their breeches, stayed near the fire only to keep an eye on their dinner, which Norrington promised would be quite edible; indeed, “just like chicken if a little stringier.”

They used sticks to pick out the meat and ate until their bellies complained.

They slept on and off through the night, keeping the fire going, drinking the last of the rainwater and leaving the jug of grog for direr needs.

= = = = =

 **Thursday**

= = = = =

In the morning they ate more of the turtle, and Swann disappeared into the jungle only to return with an armload of coconuts that they spent the morning hacking apart, passing the machete back and forth between them and throwing the husks to the fire.

Again, they spent the hottest part of the day sleeping in the shade, and in the afternoon they drank coconut milk mixed with grog and ate tough, over-cooked turtle meat.

And in the evening when the sky turned every shade of blue and the ocean turned green, they sat side by side at the fire as the air grew chill around them from the wind. They pulled on their coats against the night cold and Norrington had no qualms about snuggling in close to Swann’s side as they sat silent by the chattering fire. Weatherby slung a comfortable arm around the younger man and James leaned his head on the sturdy shoulder, shutting his eyes and soaking in more than one kind of warmth.

“I’m sorry,” Weatherby said softly, “I can’t imagine I smell very pleasant.”

“No worries; I’m in the same boat. Besides,” he added, sniffing the air, “you smell fine to me.”

“Ah. Very kind.”

Norrington snorted a laugh and burrowed closer. “I never thought I’d ever have to live through anything even vaguely resembling this.”

“Nor I.”

“But I’m glad you’re with me, Weatherby.”

“I couldn’t have asked for better company,” Swann graciously returned.

Norrington lifted his head, nodded agreement, and kissed him.

Weatherby pulled back in shock, eyes wide and disbelieving.

James didn’t pull away as he said, “I’m sorry, I… It seemed you’d grown overfond of me.” He quirked one of his lopsided grins and waited.

“That’s a very delicate way of putting it,” Swann muttered.

“Am I wrong?” James asked, green eyes guileless and hopeful.

“Wrong?” Swann breathed carefully as his heart fluttered, “no, but…” He coughed a little laugh and tried to explain of his own bewilderment, “A man’s loves and lusts do not attend reason or prayer…”

Norrington was thrown. “Loves?”

“Ah. And I thought I’d already betrayed myself. I am sorry…” He shifted as though to stand or move away, but Norrington held him down like an anchor.

“Don’t go; don’t go anywhere. What do you mean?”

“Surely you realize how very charming you are,” Swann answered without answering.

“I was raised to be sincere, not charming,” James denied. He grinned that appealing grin again and said, “Surely you’re not…” The expression drifted away. “You don’t love me,” he stated, as though of a fact he wished to be dashed to pieces.

“Several years now, I’m afraid,” Swann found the strength to confess. He looked away and made as though to leave again.

Again, James would not let him. “No, oh no, you don’t just say something like that and leave a man. Besides,” he swallowed thickly and his voice dropped into something rougher and deeper, “I’m not so sure I believe you. I think you need to prove it.”

Weatherby flushed and glanced back to him. “I can’t help but think I’m playing with fire.”

Norrington bowed his head as though composing himself. Then he looked out into the quiet night. “This is a time out of time. And for the first time in a long while, I know what I want, without confusion, without having to talk myself into or out of something. Won’t you just kiss me?”

“You’ll let me go with just a kiss?”

“No,” James vowed.

Weatherby regarded the handsome face red from the sun with a scruffy beard and tangled brown hair and needful eyes the color of overturned poplar leaves. He reached to cradle the pleading face in blistered hands and shook his own head at the incredibility of it all. “A time out of time?”

“I promise.”

“What… what do you want?”

“I want you to love me.”

“I think I can do that.” Weatherby had to overcome a struggle to say it, but he did. “Though I don’t know how easy it will be, so long have I hid it…” He rubbed a thumb over the unkempt beard and he leaned in carefully – as though fearful he might have forgotten how – to kiss the waiting man.

James gave in to it like a fainting damsel, wanting so badly to be loved.

And with such a receptive lover, Weatherby Swann found it very easy indeed.

“Did I mention,” James breathed between kisses, “I’ve grown very fond of you as well? I wanted so badly to kiss you the other day, but I… Oh just kiss me again.”

Weatherby was finding it more and more painless to oblige, and did so this time without comment or complaint, though the expression on his face betrayed the suspicion that this might all be a delusion of extreme hunger and thirst, or maybe just a dream.

Norrington lay back in the sand, pulling Weatherby down over him with a clawing grip on his shirt as they kissed, each tasting of coconut and rum. He pushed irritably at the green coat and threaded his fingers through short gray hair. “You’re marvelous,” he promised, writhing against the body above him, wanting just to be touched.

“You poor thing,” Swann told him, capturing trembling hands in his own strong one, “you—”

“ _Please_ touch me,” James begged, his eyes fierce and demanding.

Nervous but composed, Weatherby shrugged off the salt-stained coat and gently caressed Norrington’s belly, sneaking a hand up under the shirt.

Catching on, Norrington unbuttoned the silk and wriggled out of the contraption before attacking Swann’s and removing that, too. “You seem worried and… modest,” James whispered, “but I don’t think you’re old, and I do think you want this, so please don’t stop.”

That was the last convincing he needed. Weatherby nodded and kissed him quickly once more before efficiently stripping them both to the skin and making love to him beside the turtle cooking fire on the deserted island in the Caribbean.

They gave of themselves as much as they took and showed a sort of passion that could never have been displayed in any kind of society they knew. They did not touch one another so much as worship with hands and lips, paying homage to someone who understood, to someone who could love them, even if it was only for a strange, half-drunk night on a beach without a name.

So when they came messily all over one another and took forever to catch their breath and then sighed out that they loved one another, it was true, and because it was true and real and so _present_ , it was absolutely wonderful, despite the bugs and the sand and the heat and the everything else that insisted they might not live to tell the risqué tale that would mean a hanging for both should it ever be told.

And for the first time on the island, they both slept peacefully through the whole of the night.

= = = = =

 **Friday**

= = = = =

Norrington woke with the sun to the sound of buzzing flies and placed kisses on whatever skin was within reach.

“Is this it, then?” he asked as he pressed chapped lips to a flat sternum. “I’m the great love of your life?” He suddenly froze and pulled back. “Oh my god, I didn’t… You were married of course…”

“I was, yes,” Weatherby agreed, pulling the younger man to lay close beside him. “Bess was a good woman, and I married her as many men of my station do, because it was proper and a good match. My tastes never ran to women, if you take my meaning? But of course, I honored her as best I could and… she gave me the most wonderful daughter before she passed on. And now, I believe I’m as happy as a man can ever expect to be in this world. As for the love of my life, I suspect you may be right.” He chuckled then and said, “Despite our circumstances, I consider myself blessed. Is that odd, do you think?”

“Odd to find brief happiness?” James soberly asked. “Yes, I believe so, rare as it is. And we shall be glad of it, for the extent of our stay, at least.”

“We? Are you also happy, then?”

“Do you doubt it?” James asked, quieter yet. “Come on.”

They stood then and wandered into the ocean, washing away all evidence of their activities the previous night. They lounged in the shallows before returning to the burned out fire to peel the last of the meat from the upturned turtle shell in a halfhearted fashion, brushing ineffectually at the flies that attacked the carcass. They drank sparingly of the jug and set themselves again to the task of opening coconuts.

That afternoon, Swann busied himself with some secret task with the machete and Norrington contented himself with a nap, hat over his face to shield the sun.

Later, they scraped the absolute last meat from the turtle shell, despite the seagulls that fought them for it, and drank down enough grog to chase the mealy taste away.

Then, Weatherby presented his surprise. He’d carved little bits of coconut shell into rough circles and etched them with images as a makeshift chess set.

Norrington’s face lit with delight and they soon drew lines in the sand to define the board and set at once to playing their first game.

They found themselves evenly matched, and two hours later admitted a stalemate. James lit the fire and Weatherby roasted a bit of white coconut meat before they started a new game, which Norrington won, but only barely. The winner carefully placed the pieces in his upturned hat to keep them safe, and then he pushed Weatherby down on the lines scratched into the sand. He unbuttoned the flap on tan breeches and ducked his head down, using tongue and fingers to coax the man to ecstasy.

Weatherby spent in the teasing mouth and groaned his pleasure to the oncoming night. Once he recovered his wits, Swann drew the man alongside him and kissed wet lips. “Do you want to…?”

“Just touch me, please.”

“Oh my dear man,” Weatherby said with a fond smile, his hand finding the way unerringly, “you don’t have to beg.”

James panted and whined; he pulled his lover to him with a clinging hold on the shirt and kissed him with open-mouthed want until he lost himself to the coiling pleasure of it and pumped into the hand that grasped him, keening high-pitched and wild.

He was beautiful and Weatherby gathered him close and kissed him hard.

They slept wound together in their coats beside the fire as the waves kissed the beach.

= = = = =

 **Saturday**

= = = = =

The morning dawned hot and quiet, like most Caribbean mornings, and it was all they could do keep themselves from draining the jug of grog, so thirsty were they. They went about their tasks, despite the fact that neither of them wanted to see sea turtles, mangoes, or especially coconuts ever again.

But these were what had kept them alive, so the men were thankful. Quiet, but thankful.

Lethargically, they scratched another chessboard in the sand and Weatherby finally prevailed, earning with the victory a lazy kiss and half a smile.

They were just discussing whether or not to retreat to the shade of the trees and fetch the last of the mangoes on their bushes when Norrington froze and his face drained of color. “It looks as though our holiday has come to an end, Governor.”

They watched the white sails billowing over the water.

Wordlessly, they stood and fetched their clothes, shaking the sand out of shoes and hose, pulling themselves to rights.

Even their wigs were half-presentable and once they were fully dressed, they also found they’d unconsciously donned the armor they wore against the world: stately propriety and Navy austerity.

By the time the longboat put ashore and Lieutenant Andrew Gillette frantically jumped out, the stranded men were strolling idly down the beach to meet the rescue party.

“You’re alright, sir! By the heavens, and the Governor as well… Thank goodness. Please, come right along, we’ll have you onboard and heading home in no time.”

“I take it the exchange went off according to plan?”

“Ah…” Gillette’s hesitation was obvious. “Not exactly… But all’s well now, please come along…”

The men obeyed for lack of any reason to stay, and sat side by side in the longboat as the sailors happily greeted them and then rowed back to the waiting frigate.

“Lieutenant,” Norrington asked, “what day is it?”

Taken aback, Gillette stared at him a moment. “Saturday, sir.”

Norrington nodded his thanks and resisted the urge to grab Weatherby’s hand.

The boat fought the waves.

Neither man looked back.

= = = = =

Once on the deck of the _Dauntless_ , the men were herded separate ways, each to a private cabin where there was clean water and honest-to-goodness soap. Fresh suits of clothes waited for each of them and plates of good food piled high.

Each ate and drank his fill, though carefully, wary of consuming more than starved bodies were ready for.

And waiting reverently upon Norrington’s pillow was his sword, which he drew from the scabbard just to feel its weight again.

In the Captain’s cabin, Lieutenant Andrew Gillette, Commodore James Norrington, Captain John Robinson, and the Governor of Port Royal met for tea and – more importantly – for a discussion.

Norrington and Swann told of how they were imprisoned on the _Endeavor_ for a day and then marooned. Gillette told of how the longboats from the _Endeavor_ had been picked up by the _Valiant_ only a day after they’d been set afloat and then made all haste to Port Royal. That night had seen a young, tattooed Bobby Wright walk into Fort Charles with a missive and a very familiar sword.

 That’s where things had gone all cock-eyed. There was a great deal of confusion, it turned out, without the Governor around to tell people what to do everyday, made worse for having no Commodore around to tell people what to do in a crisis.

 So first a day was wasted fetching an Admiral Wells from Nassau – where the _Endeavor_ had originally been returning from its diplomatic mission – to sort out the mess, but the Admiral hadn’t approved of paying off pirates to retrieve two men who had been unwise enough to get kidnapped in the first place.

At which point, Andrew Gillette – a mere Lieutenant – nearly got himself court-martialed in his fierce defense of both Commodore and Governor. It was highly fortunate for him that the Captain of the Valiant, John Robinson, backed him up one hundred percent, not to mention there was a certain Mrs. Turner that hovered about the Fort like a harpy pouncing on anyone with enough authority to send out a sloop, claiming she would raise the money herself if the Navy couldn’t be bothered.

In the end, the Turners supplied half the demanded sum – from the Governor’s own funds to which Elizabeth had access – while Admiral Wells allowed the Navy to generously donate the other, and the whole kit and caboodle was sent off in a sloop commanded by Gillette himself, because he was determined to follow England’s demands to the letter, in no way willing to risk the possible loss of Norrington or Swann.

At the conclusion to this meeting, everyone left satisfied. Captain Robinson was thanked profusely and by the time everyone was done praising Gillette, he was positively red with embarrassment and had to excuse himself prematurely.

That night, the rocking of the ocean’s swells lulled many men to sleep, but despite everything that should have induced deepest slumber, two men could not achieve the sort of rest they longed for, finding only a cold emptiness in their solitary bunks.

= = = = =

 **Epilogue**

= = = = =

In Port Royal the two castaways were hailed as heroes, despite the fact that all they had done was survive and it was men like Robinson and Gillette who were the real heroes.

Elizabeth wept when she embraced her father; her husband practically had to pry her off again. There wasn’t a sailor or officer in Jamaica who wasn’t happy to have the Commodore back, for though he was a stern commander and a demanding one, he was never cruel or heartless.

And by the time they were in their own beds, the Governor in his mansion and the Commodore in the Fort, it seemed an era had been dreamed of and forgotten.

= = = = =

Like most adventures, the tale of the kidnapping was all the news for a fortnight and promptly forgotten after the fact.

The Governor saved a clipping from a London newspaper pressed inside his private ledger, and Norrington bathed twice a day for all the weeks it took for the tale of their plight to reach London and return in printed form.

Finally, it seemed the only thing that had truly changed was Saturday night.

Every Saturday night, the Commodore called upon the Governor in his mansion, where they retreated to a private study for chess and a nip of brandy.

These games often ended in a stalemate, and Norrington often drank too much.

The island had left its mark upon them in subtle ways. Mostly, it was a softness in green eyes or fond smile on expressive features. Mostly, it was the sort of thing that went unnoticed unless one knew to look for it.

And some Saturday nights, Norrington never found his way home.

The first time, he drank too much and ended up sleeping on the little divan in the study.

The second time, he drank too much and kept the Governor up all night with maudlin ramblings about his Irish mother and the Royal Navy.

The third time, he didn’t drink enough, and the Governor escorted him to his large bedroom where they made love the way they had on the beach, only quieter.

= = = = =

“It’s a funny world,” James said, snuggling closer.

“If you mean how odd it is that you’ve fallen in love with the father of your former fiancé and have set up shop with him on Saturday nights under the pretense of playing chess and drinking best brandy, then I agree with you.” He glanced sidelong at his bedmate and smiled.

Reading the worry beneath the amused expression, James kissed the tip of a nose and quietly promised, “We won’t get caught.”

“How do you know?”

“Neither of us are stupid enough to betray ourselves, your servants love you too much to breathe a word even if they knew, and besides which… who would believe it?”

“Those are all very fine points,” Weatherby allowed.

“Did it earn a kiss, then?” James asked, all wide eyes and coy smiles.

Swann tilted his head as though in calculated contemplation. “I suppose it did.”

And while the weeks passed away one from another, falling from the calendar like autumn leaves, there was a certain timelessness kept for Saturday nights when chess was foreplay, mangoes became ambrosia, and an island was made of a bedroom.

= = = = =

The End


End file.
